The Agenda
by TheDarkFlygon
Summary: A series of interconnected oneshots about an oddly specific, LGBT-themed, Derek-centric agenda. DerAng, Greg/Cybil, TylLes. Contains lots of friendships, including with Naomi.
1. Scars from Yesterday

_Summary: Some wounds never truly close up and it just so happens most of them aren't physical. Sometimes, the littlest things can open these back up._  
_A good thing some people are here to patch these wounds up._

The distortion on your face is so obvious Angie immediately notices it, even if she's barely over your shoulder while he stares in disbelief at your phone screen. To be frank, there's such a revolting feeling setting in your stomach at the moment that it wouldn't be hard to notice how badly you're taking what you're seeing. But, like a train wreck, despite your disgust, you can't look away from it until your finger closes the app on his phone on their own.

"Derek, is everything okay?" She then asks, prompting you to put away your phone and face her.

"Y-yeah," he stutters. "Just saw something unpleasant."

Angie looks around, noticing the staff room is empty at the moment. It's not surprising, considering it's three in the morning. She grabs your arm and gently pulls away on it.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

You don't really want to say anything what you've just seen, but you also need something to rinse the bitter and sour aftertaste that won't leave your mouth. Plus, it's not like your therapist recommends bottling everything up, especially on that topic.

"I'll take the offer. Thanks, Angie."

She smiles as she slowly walks you to the sofa.

"You're welcome. I'm always glad to help."

You both sit down on it with only a few centimetres separating you from her. You stare at the floor, still trying to wash your eyeballs and cleanse your stomach. Alas, it's all in vain: the feeling doesn't seem to agree on leaving the premise anytime soon.

It's not even like you should still be this deeply affected by that goddamn picture. It's old and you don't even remember it being ever taken. It's so old, in fact, you can't find any precise memory within yourself of that time of your life, just vague shards of words and feelings blurring into a mix of fiction and recreation done by a slightly confused brain which doesn't know if it should burn that past to the ground or instead treasure it inside a little box.

A comforting hand lands on your thigh, breaking you away from that short burst of thought.

"So, what is this thing that's been bothering you? It seems really unpleasant, considering your face's all twisted."

"It's… It's just a silly photo. You're gonna find it super silly too if I tell you…"

"There's no judgement here, Derek. You can tell me about it, it's fine. I've told you I'd help you as both your assistant and your friend, right?"

"Of course, but really, it's so ridiculous…"

"I'm sure it's nothing of the sort."

You sigh again. Your therapist has also told you multiple times to stop belittling your thoughts and throwing so much judgement onto yourself for things you cannot control, so you better listen to these lessons and learn them now.

"I have relatives who don't know about it yet."

"About 'that'?"

"Yeah. They're people I haven't seen in a decade so they're unaware of everything. I've never told them because I've never had to. My mom never forced me to anyway…"

"So they still call you by the wrong name and things like that?"

"Exactly."

Angie gives you a tender look. She most likely doesn't know what that feels like, or even what words to put onto that phenomenon. How can you blame her? You're glad she doesn't know what it's like, actually. You're relieved she's never had to suffer through that in her life.

"I'm sorry to hear that… They know you're a surgeon, at least, right?"

"Yeah, my mother must have told them at some point. Some of them at least call me Doctor, even if they've got no idea."

"Is there a reason why you've never told them?"

"I just never felt the need to. It's the sort of things you hate telling people because you never know how they'll react."

"It must be a terrifying thing to do…"

"…but I'm starting to regret my decision not to tell them, I think."

Surprise washes over her face. Her other hand is now on your shoulder, loose hair brushing against the skin of his forearms. You left the lab coat in his office before going to grab a coffee; but that was also before the picture fiasco.

"Why so?"

Aren't you annoying her with all of your ramblings? Well, at least, it does feel therapeutic, so it's not like you should mind. Her questions are helping you clear his mind and make your own thoughts easier to understand and digest.

"I often get messages from distant relatives or old high school friends that tell me they find it amusing that there's such a famous Dr Stiles that's often on TV or talked about. None of them actually suspects him and me to actually be the same person. It's weird, I feel like an imposter when I read that kind of messages."

"Now that's quite the situation… You want them to recognize you as this man even if they think you're… not one yourself?"

Her voice crackles on the last words. She clearly still struggles with some of the topics, or at least how to put them into words. You can tell she's trying, though. She's done her research behind your back for sure.

"Maybe? I'm kind of confused. I usually don't think a lot about it anyway. It's just that I got a message that reminded me of all these buries feelings earlier. I didn't see it until a few minutes ago."

"Oh, it's because of the thing on your phone that bothered you, then?"

"Exactly."

The grip on both your shoulder and thigh strengthens.

"What was it, then? Again, if you don't mind me asking…"

You sigh. Lighten your chest, Derek, you won't sleep tonight if it's still weighing on your consciousness like that… You don't want the nausea and the elevated pulse to wake up in the middle of your precious resting time, right?

"My aunt sent me a picture from when I was a kid."

"I see…"

"You're gonna find it silly, of course, but I hate that picture and the caption with it. I don't think I have the strength to describe it, let me show you."

You puts your phone out again and, trying to pry your eyes away from the photo at fault, you open the message back up and puts your cell in her right hand.

You've felt that wave of anxious nervousness before. It's the stress that piles up on you when you need to show someone something that could change their perception of you, or your life as a whole sometimes. If you've told Angie with words what you truly are, your made Mom read a text you'd written on a piece of paper at school when the class was the white noise background to the cacophony of your mental, sentimental turmoil.

Still, you do manage to look at her as she looks at the screen. Her delicate fingers handle your phone with precaution. Her expression goes from endeared (most certainly by the picture itself, where your child self was smiling for the camera dressed in a lab coat too big for such a tiny body), to shocked, to finally distorting in distress.

You've just realized you've forgotten that the message also mentioned the one information you _didn't_ want to give her for any reason. It was your most secretive part, the one piece from your past you'd have done so much to erase from this plane of reality.

That's… absolutely _awful_.

After a heavy silence, Angie gives back your phone, looking away.

"Sorry, I read the caption…"

"You couldn't have known. Please just… never use that name."

"Why would I do that? I'll make sure to forget about it as soon as possible and never come across it ever again. I shouldn't be this curious anyway…"

"It's okay. In fact, I'm thankful you've asked me. It's incredibly relaxing once everything's off your chest."

"I'm sure it is. I'm glad I could be of help!"

Her face suddenly lights up.

"Oh, by the way! Can I ask you how you picked your name?"

You chuckle. Her enthusiastic curiosity isn't typical of a 3AM shift.

"I haven't been asked that in such a long time, I forgot how I used to explain that!"

"Oh, really? How long?"

"Since my therapist asked me about it, I think… Either her or when Tyler asked me about it, and that was back in med school. I didn't exactly get to reveal that to anyone else since then, at least, that was until I told you…"

Angie fiddles with her fingers. She clearly doesn't like to be reminded of it and, frankly, so do you aside from one little thing. Your only pride in what unfolded that day is the fact you were somehow able to actually put into spoken words what used to terrify you to express so much you had to write it down and make people read a text instead. It was a personal victory and, well, you're allowed to be proud of that, right? It's rare for you to find euphoria where a land barren of joy once stood.

You clear your throat, the story forming back inside your mind.

"Anyway. I picked that name when I was in high school. At the time, I didn't really know what to pick for myself, so… You know these baby name sites? I used to always be on them unless my mother entered my room. In the end, I ended up not finding anything I really liked on there. It's hard to name yourself when you've been called something else your entire life."

A smile draws itself on your face as the memories come back, one by one. It's a strange rush of nostalgia for something that was so painful.

"One day, I stumbled upon my father's old comic books. My mother never had the heart to throw them away, so we just kept them in big boxes in a storage room. In one of them was a doctor character named Derek and, from then on… I just identified with him. Actually, I wanted to be like him and save people through medicine. He was way more muscular than I was, though."

You must look ridiculous to someone more grounded than Angie, and yet you hear her softly laugh.

"You say that as if you weren't already a superhero of your own, Derek."

In one remark, she's set fire to your face.

"Huh…?!"

"Not only have you saved the world from GUILT, but you've also overcome all of this. At least, to me, that's a heroic act. You went against everyone and everything else for that, in a way." She glances back at him. "If that isn't worth admiring, then what is?"

"Hah… I don't know what to respond…" You scratch the back of your head with a laugh in your throat. "Thanks a lot, Angie."

"I'm trying my best. I still don't understand everything and, no matter how many times I try, I can't quite put myself in your shoes… So, if I ever mess up, tell me, okay?"

"I will. If it reassures you, I don't have anything to write on a report about you yet."

It's her turn to sigh in relief.

"I'd even add you've been my best supporter on that front so far."

Both of your faces turn red as their eyes dart away from each other's. How did you manage to squeeze that one out of your chest? That was oddly smooth coming from your clumsy mouth, Stiles. Must be the power of the late shift soon coming to a close.

"To our tandem, then," Angie says as she lies back into the sofa.

"To our tandem."

Telling the rest of your family doesn't seem to be quite the bad idea if you've got people like Tyler and her by your side. It can't bring you any more pain than it's had until now, can it? Perhaps you should tell Angie about it.

Why a "perhaps"? Of course you'll tell her about it before you take a decision. Silly you.


	2. Hidden Depths

Summary:_ Early on in his med school years, Derek discovers his friend knows more than he could have guessed._  
_It's, to his surprise, not an issue._

* * *

It's the end of the day and it sure feels like so. Your chest hurts and, if you don't get back to your place real soon, you may forget what oxygen tastes like. Plus, if you want to study for the next exams and not flunk them like you've almost done before (and you don't want to ask someone else for the answers to them again, it's about time you become a good student and don't just try (and almost fail) with your dodgy attention span and flunky memory).

All you've got to do is get out of this school, go to the bus stop, maybe try liberating your lungs for a little bit far from indiscreet eyes and survive the trip to your place. You can take the elevator to the fifth floor if it's not broken (which, let's be fair, with his luck, it's possible it's magically broken just to annoy you, it wouldn't be the first time and would certainly not be the last). It'll all be fine.

"Hey, Derek, wait for me!"

Tyler's voice immediately makes you stop in your tracks as your classmate runs towards you, tapping on your shoulder with an energic hand (and perhaps bruising it from how frail you are and how strong he is).

"You need something?" You ask startled, breathless.

"Nah, I just wanted to walk home together. Is that fine with you? I think we live in the same dorm."

"Oh, huh… That's fine by me,"

As usual, you've replied before thinking about whether or not it was a good idea in the first place to respond what you've just told people. How many hours has it been, by now? More than eight, most likely. You've lost track of time because of how busy the day was. It doesn't help that you're, as always, terrible at remembering hours.

At first, Tyler seems more than happy about it, until his expression changes for a more doubtful one. He rubs his chin.

"Hey, pal, are you sure you're up to it?" Has Tyler ever spoken seriously to you before? That tone feels almost foreign. "You sound a little weird."

Okay, time to quickly calculate something. You can't say no to your one friend in this wretched place and refusing now would only raise suspicion from him, so you can't exactly back down. Still, that doesn't make the situation any better: your chest is screaming for you to bring it some well-deserved relief or else your ribcage could break. How could you possibly synchronize both sides of the issue when everything seems to tear them further and further away from each other?

Hey, you do have a hoodie in your bag, don't you? It's a little too warm in here for you to be wearing it inside, but if you're walking home or waiting at the bus stop with Tyler, then it should be fine, right? Plus, it should be just baggy enough not to reveal anything suspicious. You can only pray it doesn't, at least, now. God, Derek, when will you stop putting yourself in that kind of ridiculous situations?

"Mind if I go to the bathroom first?" You ask trying to feign complete ignorance. Truth be told, you don't need to use it for any "traditional" reason, so your voice must sound somewhat fake. You've always been a terrible, godawful liar; that won't be changing today.

"Oh, yeah, sure, go for it. I'll be waiting here," Tyler replies, not without some doubt in his tone.

"Thanks, I'll be right back."

That's not entirely true. You're used to quickly changing in and out, especially in very narrow spaces like the men's bathroom; but that doesn't mean you won't be taking some time compared to a simple trip there. At least, and much to your fortune, there are a couple empty stalls and you rush into one of them before someone else can steal your spot.

As always, your brain somewhat blanks out when you have to give your lungs their full capacity to pull air in and out of his body. You stare at the ceiling, the crude tags on the walls or even the toilet you're pretending to be using at the moment; just avoid the ground as, to your chagrin and upmost frustration, there's something in the way you _really_ shouldn't see. Or, if you really like the kind of dirty floor, you can stare at your glasses disgracefully lying there (just almost as much as you look pathetic at the moment) until you're finished putting yourself back together.

You quickly put them back on your nose and slips into your hoodie, incredibly annoyed by the slight bump that shouldn't be there. To seal the deal and hide your dirty secrets, you flush the toilet down (sorry for the useless water consumption, by the way) and wash your hands. Hey, that may cleanse yourself from the lie you've thrown in your friend's way.

Sure enough, Tyler's still here when you come back, waving at you with a smile. You join back together and make your way out of the building, mutually venting about whatever crap the day has put the both of you through. You try focusing on their conversation so you can ignore how horrible it feels to be out in the open without your breast plate to protect yourself.

"Say, Derek," Tyler suddenly asks as you've gone past most of the people. "There's something I've been meaning to ask you for some time by now."

The serious tone is back. Could he bring the both of you back to light-hearted jokes and terrible puns, please?

"What is it?"

"You're always out of breath by the end of the day. Why's that?"

Shit. That's one hell of an armour-piercing question.

"Ah…" You instinctively cross your arms over your chest, as if you weren't busted already. "It's that, huh…"

You're struggling to come up with a credible half-truth. You're not asthmatic, you're not sick with a bronchitis, huh… Huh… Ah, maybe that, if you could focus on your lessons for longer than thirty seconds, you'd know more ailments that could cause chronic dyspnoea!

"Actually, there's something else," Tyler continues. "Little things here and there."

There are shivers going down yiur spine and cold sweats coursing down your temples.

"It's that… What kind of things are we talking about here? I know I look scrawny, but I promise you, I do eat enough, I'm not—"

Tyler mischievously smiles at you, eyes almost closed from how much he's squinting at you with delightful amusement.

"Let's just say you're as bad at lying as you are at hiding stuff before people come to your place."

Oh fuck. You're busted. You're so busted, busted to hell and back, busted from Jupiter. Goodbye credibility, goodbye stealth comfort.

"If I was you, I wouldn't bind for more than eight hours. Makes your chest sore."

"W-what are you…"

"But y'know that already, don't you?"

"How did you—"

Tyler chuckles, seemingly more amused than disgusted of him at anything. God, that guy's gotten you played and fiddled with all along!

"As I said, Derek, you're terrible at hiding stuff in your place. All I had to do is connecting the dots."

"And you don't…"

"I don't what?"

"Don't… mind, or anything like that?"

His expression darkens tremendously. Maybe you do like feeling pranked. In comparison to whatever that stare is for, at least, you sure do appreciate yourself a good prank.

"Dude, do you even listen to yourself? In what world would I 'mind' that? It's _your_ business, _your_ pain, not mine. I'm just trying to look out for you because, not gonna lie, you're kind of a mess."

You don't quite know what do answer. The mood whiplash may have exhausted you out of what was left of your mental energy for the day. You do find something to eventually ask back as an answer.

"Can you just not tell anyone else about it? I don't want that to become the talk of the class."

Tyler reprises his signature smile. Phew.

"I gotcha. I'll bring the secret to my tomb, chief."

You almost get dizzy from how suddenly the stress you've accumulated until now leaves your mind and body. Truly, your chest must have lost half of its mass in one fell swoop. It now feels comfortable to put your hands inside your pockets and hope everyone can ignore your insecurities. That's progress, alright.

"Good. Thanks a lot, Tyler."

"You're welcome! Friends are meant to keep each other's secrets anyway."

Now, all you have to do is believe the one person that keeps coming to your aid whenever you're swamped by the mighty papers you all face. That shouldn't be too difficult, even for you, right?

"You're not wrong."

You walk up to the bus stop in peace, resuming your conversation on med school as the day comes to a happy close.


	3. Confessions in the OR

Summary:_ Naomi has weird priorities and you find that perhaps discussing your respective shames when you're dying isn't a good idea._

* * *

You've never felt this vulnerable before. Not even during the hardships you faced earlier in life, not even when you had drains attached to yourself and Tyler helping around, not even when you slept for three days, not even when your lungs had been polluted by Adam's false words; none of them matched up to the feeling of fragility currently installing itself in your nerves and veins.

It could have been because you weren't too aware of his surroundings and weren't facing the direct threat of his imminent demise, or because you could help yourself against the harm coming your way; whatever it was, it's different now. Today, you're helpless, writhing in literal agony and much too aware of that fact to be able to ignore it.

The door opens gently without a knock, making way for the sound of rubber shoes on the linoleum floor. Dr Naomi Kimishima doesn't look too scared about what's going to happen, bearing a resting face unhidden by the mask that should be watching her scrubs, but perhaps it's just a façade: you've known each other for, what, four hours at most? You met today, discussed a bit in front of the prying eyes of her director and another doctor you can't bring yourself to entirely trust (must be his skull-patterned tie), she observed you do some surgery and now she has to operate on you. You may have missed a step – or several – there.

"How are you holding up?"

Good question. Your chest has been set on fire and it seems like the flames aren't about to let up. You can barely breathe without your lungs acting up in compassion with your heart. You just want to cry in pain, but doing so in front of another surgeon seems like a good way to add onto your current vulnerability. You're also half-naked, you don't need even more fragility.

"Dumb question, I know," she adds with a smirk. "Of course you're holding up, since you're still conscious."

Kimishima remains by the operation table, arms crossed. There should be something weird and embarrassing about being shirtless in front of such a beautiful woman you barely know; but you can't find what, at the moment.

"…I'm worried Nurse Thompson's feelings for you will prevent her from doing her job," she suddenly tells you, her smirk suddenly nowhere to be seen. "Are you sure she can handle this?"

Well, you may have forgotten to think about her until now. Not that it's out of disdain (God, you'd never even _think_ about daring to do that), you've just not even considered the matter like Kimishima has. The habit and trust you've put in her have to be responsible for that.

"Don't worry 'bout Angie… She's the best there is," you force out of his throat, retaining a cough in.

"She's Blackwell's daughter, right?" Kimishima asks again, a hand on her chin and her eyes slightly lost in the vagueness of the short-sighted horizon. "I hope she's as tough as her old man."

"…Huh?"

Okay, you may have a misplaced sense of priorities, sure; but you can be fairly certain that now is _not_ the time to discuss Angie's biological affiliation to the creator of GUILT. It sounds fairly ironic too, considering you're lying in bed infected with it right as you speak.

"I took a few jobs for Delphi back in America, under an assumed name," Kimishima starts explaining. "I can't stop time or anything, but my Healing Touch was enough for them to pay top dollar. They needed me to keep GUILT subjects alive long enough to complete their research…In a way, that GUILT inside you wouldn't exist without me."

Well, seen that way, she isn't _entirely_ wrong (even then, her reasoning sounds like a stretch, she wasn't the one to have the idea for GUILT or the messed-up intentions behind it)… But still…

"Wh-why are you…?" You cough before you can finish his sentence, your airways burning along.

Leaning against the wall, Kimishima crosses her arms back together with a pained expression on her face (at least, from what you can see through the veil of tears constantly coming to cover your eyes and without the glass that usually strengthen your flawed vision).

"After you raided Delphi's American Eidoth facility, I cut a deal with Caduceus Europe…" You start clutching the sheets around him in an attempt not to scream your heart out, the pain suddenly flaring up. "I gave them a GUILT sample and my Healing Touch in exchange for full immunity." She marks a pause. "…This is how I've chosen to atone for my sins."

Your time's running short. Better shorten this conversation as soon as possible.

"N-no…" You eventually manage to push out of your strangled larynx, not without first fighting against another coughing fit. "Why are you telling me this…?"

Kimishima smirks back as she replies, "trust is an essential component to the doctor-patient relationship."

"…Yeah, but it's usually…" You're somehow finding yourself amused at her response despite the context and how even the slightest attempt at laughing makes you cough. "…the other way around…"

"You may have a point," she chuckles.

Kimishima, however, almost loses the amused smirk right afterwards, her eyebrows frowning.

"I had my reservations, of course. Doubts… about whether I deserved to keep operating." She glances at him. "Look at us… You've saved countless lives, and you'll die if I can't save yours…" Her chuckle is saddened, this time, the smirk reeling of bitterness before it finally goes away entirely. "But I've realized something: as long as I'm still needed, I can be a doctor. I want my life back, just as much as you want to live. We both need to keep fighting."

You're about to add something, that she's right, but her glance brushes against your exposed skin. Her lips turn upwards again as her finger points out the two scars that are already here.

"Does Nurse Thompson know about _that_?"

You gulp, breathing in a panic from flaring physical pain and sudden mental distress. Yep, you've forgotten about them once again despite seeing them no later than this morning.

"She…"

"She doesn't, right? It's not even written in your medical profile. You've obscured it out."

You've got no answer. Kimishima's found you out and it's not even been five hours. Talk about having a very bad, terrible, no-good day…

"…I corrected it."

"…Huh?"

"I changed it. I know it's not very legal; but I've seen the other scars on your abdomen and there has to be some advantages to having eradicated almost all of cancer types, isn't there. You've had your fair share of surgeries already, haven't you, Stiles?"

"I…"

"I've also read in your profile about your prescriptions. On what day do you do your injections?"

"Thursdays…"

That still doesn't give an answer to any of the interrogations you're getting assaulted with, but it's getting somewhere, you suppose.

"Why are you doing this…?"

"Doing what?"

You don't know anymore. You're both stalling while the pain is eating you alive and something's fiddling with your internal organs, the questions keep piling up. Why is she discussing all of that now? Why are you both still here? Why is she helping a man she's known for so little as if you've been friends for years?

"All of this…" You're breathless, mind and heart full of smoke.

"I've known someone like you before." Kimishima sounds solemn, if not sad, as she glances up. "I never got to know his name, or where he came from, since he worked with me when I was with Delphi; yet I cling onto the hope that we'll come across each other again, someday." She sighs. "I have no real idea of how painful your ordeal must have been, Stiles, and I'll never claim to be able to; but, as a doctor, if I can help you, I will."

You sigh, both in relief and to alleviate the demon's emprise on him (in vain). You don't have the luxury to hesitate and have many more reasons to believe in her: if she's bluffing, then she's damn good at it, because her words shot right through your heart. Something tells you she couldn't have made it up, just like that story of having worked under a false identity for Delphi only to be redeemed by Caduceus Europe.

Do you know each other, now? Maybe. You're in no state to overthink things, your brain going at record-beating speeds to give itself the time to gather everything that goes through your mind right now. You feel like you do, now that she's given you all of her life story and every part of it sounds like she really wants you to trust her no matter the price. Better bite the bullet on purpose rather than risk getting hit by it.

Your fingers are still clutching the sheets. You gathers what's left of your voice, a hand on your chest as she gets close to the breathing mask he can eye with the corner of his sight.

"…I believe in you, Kimishima…" You cough again, his body trying to reject something it cannot on its own. "I can trust you… with my life."

Your surgeon's gaze softens as yours blurs out while her hands gently pick up the mask. You believe you can see a soft smile on her lips.

"Thank you, Stiles."

Then, reprising her role as the doctor and him as the patient, painting herself in a serious hue once again.

"…See you on the other side."

Her slender fingers pull her chirurgical mask over the bottom half of her face before the sleeping gas enters your system and your sight blacks out once and for all.

"Show me your stomach," Angie asks you with a needle and bottle in hand.

"W-what…?!"

You stare at each other, with you dumbfounded and her determined. This has to be the least understandable, most sudden question she's ever asked you.

"That's where you inject this, right?" She shows you the bottle's label, revealing a very familiar name. "Dr Kimishim's told me you did your injections on Thursdays."

Did you tell her that? Maybe. It's hard to remember things when you were engulfed in pain at the time.

"Ah, yeah, but… I can do it myself, you know…"

Angie seems doubtful as to your statement.

"I believe you've told Director Miller you couldn't even lift a scalpel when he asked you if he could show something."

"C'mon, Angie, that was because he wanted me to run around the place two days after surgery…"

"I'll admit you've got a point there. I'm willing to bet he's never had a surgery done on him," she giggles. "Now, since you're a patient, you can let a professional nurse take care of it, right?"

"I…" There's a strange heat in your cheeks, right now. "I guess so…"

You slowly lifts the blanket covering the rest of your body, careful to the IV in your wrist, then fight against early shivers when pulling up your gown. She doesn't say anything, simply helps you because you really _are_ still that weak.

It seems like you haven't had someone to take care of your hormonal issues since you were a teenager. As such, it's strangely soothing to watch Angie putting her usual hot blood aside to delicately disinfect your usual injection spot, open the bottle, fill the syringe and proceed with the injection itself. You can't say it affects you as much as it used to. You have the feeling you should be embarrassed about it, and yet all you feel is relaxed and soothed… Why wouldn't you trust the nurse that has helped saving countless lives, including yours, and one of the few persons who knows your secret, after all? Silly you.

"And done!" The nurse proudly states as she bandages the spot and cleans everything up.

"Thanks a lot, Angie."

"That's the least I can do. You're the patient here, after all."

"I suppose you're right… Still, it feels wei—"

You get interrupted by a knock on your door, in whose direction Angie turns her head.

"Yes?"

Naomi enters the room, dressed in her lab coat and heels clicking against the linoleum of the room.

"Angie, do you mind if I have a one-on-one discussion with my patient?"

"A-absolutely not!" The nurse rapidly puts everything back into the case she got them from, before getting up and almost bowing to her. "I'll see you later, Derek!"

"See you…" You wave at her, watching your assistant leaving in a hurry while putting your gown and blankets back on.

The door opens and closes again.

"She really likes to help, doesn't she? It's easy to see why she chose to become a nurse."

"Yeah… I feel like she may be a little too preoccupied with that, though…"

"Perhaps you're right. If that's the case, then, you'll have to tell her yourself."

"I know… You didn't tell her before the operation started, right?"

"I thought you'd have wanted to do it yourself. Should have I?"

You chuckle awkwardly, the memory of having to break it off to Angie coming back in weird, shifting waves.

"I'd have rather done it on my terms, so you did the right thing."

There is a short silence that follows where the two of you don't look at each other. You're busy staring at your IV drip instead.

"Derek," she suddenly speaks up, prompting you to face her yet again. "do you remember our conversations from before?"

"I have a vague memory of you having worked for Delphi, but I also don't remember telling you about when in the week I injected myself, so… I don't really know. Why?"

"Oh, just out of curiosity." That doesn't sound quite like the entire truth. You nonetheless don't verbally question it. "I may be a little too curious for my own good. I did ask you very indiscreet questions, after all."

"Isn't that the point of the doctor-patient relationship?"

"You have a point yet again," Naomi replies with a chuckle. "Even if you do remember more than I thought you would."

"I have a very weird memory."

"If you say so."

Her face grows more serious as she stares at the IV stand, gaze cold and slightly unfocused.

"You know, by saving you, I feel like I've also helped this guy."

"The one you worked with while at Delphi?" Like Naomi thought, you do remember more than you thought you would. Honestly, it's hard to forget when you've heard that wondering if you were going to see the sun rise up tomorrow.

"Exactly. Just like with you, I ended up discovering it on accident, but I never told him as I never felt the need to. To be fair, he never became my patient either, fortunately…"

"I see."

Naomi shakes her head, reprising her smile with her hands in her coat's pockets.

"I'm chatting so much, I almost forgot why I came here. How are you doing?"

"Honestly?" You scratch the back of your head. "I still feel like death warmed over, but I suppose it can't be worse than it was before."

"You're quite the honest man, especially for one whose recovery is steady and quicker than anticipated."

"Is that a good or a bad thing?"

She seems quite amused at his answer.

"That's an excellent sign of recovery."

You lie back into his pillow, sighing.

"I didn't get the time until now, but thank you, Naomi."

"I only did my job, no need to thank me. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have more doctor duties to attend to… and I think a certain nurse would absolutely love to talk with you some more. See you later."

"See you…"

Perhaps you can quickly get to know someone even if it's just been for a few days. At least, it seems so to you, now that you watch her leave.


	4. Closing the Loop

Summary: _There is one last lesson you need to learn and, clearly, it won't be a fun one. (4-1 to 4-4 rewrite)._

* * *

Dr Kasal is the father you've never had.

Not that you didn't love your father, back when he was alive. You loved him, in fact, more than Mom and more than almost everyone. He read comics to you when you couldn't read yet and let you borrow some when you finally learnt how to.

You loved him so much that you still get miserable when you remember he's never called you by your name. Only pretences and nicknames. You'd rather remember the silly pet names, the "honeys" and the "darlings". They carry the conflicting taste of a sweet exterior and bitter insides, they make you sick if you indulge in them too much; until one day you puked it all out and since then you've tried not to eat them anymore.

But Dr Kasal has never called you by anything other than the right name. He's always respected you in all regards as soon as he laid his eyes on you and decided you were worthy of his mentorship. He's put a hand on your shoulder when you did good and encouraged you despite all the hardships of the job. He may have been strict, but some father figures are strict and that's what makes them such great people to learn from and under. He's no exception.

He's a caring man too, under the stern appearance. Remember the time you collapsed after using your Touch on purpose for the first time? He was there to monitor on you, according to Angie's truthful words. He assigned himself to your case when you wouldn't wake up. He told you not to use the Healing Touch for your own safety. He can't even know how much esteem you have for him…

Needless to say, something in your heart breaks when you learn from Director Miller in the middle of Africa that Dr Kasal has gotten infected with GUILT. Angie's bruised forearm is a testament to just how nervous you suddenly gets as you drag the both of you to the nearest flight to the USA.

You hear it all.

The weak words of your mentor clutching the left part of his abdomen telling you as casually as possible that he had known something was wrong.

_Keep working hard, Derek._

The trembling voice of the titanium-willed Sidney Kasal as he put his glasses back on the bridge of his nose in an attempt to hide his tears.

…_Derek? Greg is my brother. Please remember that._

The snaps of frustration directed your way of the iron-witted Dr Myers in a rare moment of vulnerability, upset at you, upset at Delphi, upset at the world.

_Stay __**calm**__?! How can you say that when your mentor is __**dying**__ in there?! If… if you hadn't been gone…!_

You want to cry every time, break down and show how worried and upset you are too; but you don't allow yourself to do so because you're one of the few people capable to save him, so you bottle everything and plan on crying when you'd be home alone.

You work hard to find the cure. You run around the city without taking a break, prompting Angie to often ask you if you don't need one. You always reply to her with a not-so-honest smile that you're capable of doing three or four surgeries in a row despite your nerves knotting with each passing minute. You get restless because you can't force yourself to stay put for a minute without worry biting into your flesh.

Having to entrust Victor with everything wrecks your nerves just as much as it does Cybil's. You may only spend one or two nights while he burns his sleep away in an attempt to find a serum to stop the infection; it doesn't mean you're getting a lot more rest than he does. You can't get much sleep – and that's despite your best efforts at following Nurse Fulton's "a surgeon has to sleep at least six hours" mantra – not you're your quickened pulse makes you nauseous and nightmares of losing a second father figure to the plague haunt your body.

When the serum finally comes in, a collective sigh of relief erupts in the room. Sidney is tenser than he's been so far, immediately ordering the serum to be administrated and assigning Dr Clarks to his brother, with you as an assistant.

_Director, I don't think I can operate on Dr Kasal_, you told him with all the honesty in the world yesterday.

And yet, your heart skips a bit when the two-on-one pre-surgery conversation takes place in your mentor's hospital room, the monitors beeping along.

"Derek, you're going to be operating on Dr Kasal," Dr Clarks tells you without an ounce of irony, sarcasm or mockery. He's as serious and professional as ever while you're trying your best not to fall apart.

"Huh? But I thought you were scheduled for that procedure…" You try arguing back in a stutter.

"I asked him to switch with you, Derek…"

The even weaker voice of your mentor catches your attention, the grip on his abdomen having lost in strength and his skin matching the immaculate bedsheets. It takes even more of your resolution not to show at least some guilt at seeing him that way.

"Why?" You ask from the bottom of your heart, the lump in your throat almost obscuring your airways. "Dr Clarks is an experienced surgeon… I… I'm just a…"

Dr Kasal throws his head back a little in his pillow, Stephen's watchful eye not letting up.

"I know that you told my brother you couldn't operate on me…" Well, you sure did that, haven't you? "I'd like to know why not"

You're a coward, aren't you? That's the reason, right? You're a coward who can't even face his own feelings straight-on.

"Well... What if I did something wrong…? I mean… you'd—"

"Are you worried I won't make it?"

To your surprise, he's staring right at you with a pained, distorted smile, panting; and yet his eyes are full of life, shining with fire and a will to live unlike any you've seen in your short career.

"Of… Of course not! You're going to—"

He interrupts you again.

"Then make it happen."

He sighs, perhaps realizing it's a terrible idea to entrust you with his life.

"…It looks like I forgot to teach you a very important lesson. You've developed your skills, but something's still holding you back. Sometimes, a doctor needs to ignore his personal relationships."

"…Huh?" You don't quite get where he's going with this.

"A friendship should have no bearing on your surgical ability. Once someone is in the operation room, they're your patient and nothing else. You're their doctor, so you save them. That's all there is to it."

"But…" Your bottled-up fears break away from their glass cage and spill out from your mouth. "I'm still human, I…"

"This is especially important because you have the Healing Touch." He winces in pain, his fingers clutching the fabric of his gown. "I won't let you end up like Robert…"

"…Dr Hoffman?" You still ask when, really, you shouldn't be dragging this conversation more than necessary. Time isn't exactly on your side.

"I'll explain it when the time comes. But… for now… You just need to focus, Dr Stiles. I know you can do this." Your heart warms suddenly upon hearing these few words, even in such a dire context. "Think of it as a trial… The final test before you can call yourself a doctor and really mean it."

"Dr Kasal…"

Your words have left you. On top of the sickening concern now roars the pressure and the expectations you have to live up to. Still, he's right: it is your job to reassure patients. Angie used to scold you a lot about that, what would she say if she heard you all trembling and shaking like this? You need to seem bolder, braver. You don't want to scare such a figure, don't you?

"Well, Doctor…" His men… His patient's voice is now barely louder than a pained whisper. "Can I be cured?"

"Yes, I anticipate a full recovery after the procedure."

"Who's going to be operating?"

"I…" You still sound hesitant despite your best efforts at looking like you're trusting yourself with such a task. "I will."

"You don't sound very confident."

"…You can trust me. You're in good hands, Mr Kasal."

It hurts you to call him this way, but it has to be done. You need to prove both to him and to yourself that you're a true surgeon worth the name and the "doctor" moniker.

"…That's the spirit, Derek." He smirks, almost in comfort. "Remember, I believe in you."

"Yes sir."

Calming yourself down is an impossible task by the time you reach the pre-operation conference room. You look over the patient's profile, focusing on Dr Clarks's explanations instead, which he ends on a solemn note that doesn't fail to shake you one last time: _…Dr Kasal is a fine surgeon. You trained under him, and now you have to save his life… Do your best, Derek…_

You know what you're getting into and there is no turning back now. You're going to save your mentor and that's it. You may be scared, but as Cybil would say, it's your job and the weight on your shoulders shouldn't be too much for you to bear. You _will_ succeed.

When you enter the operation room proper, your nervousness almost gets the best of you, but you don't back down, not when the situation calls for you and you've been specially designed to the task. Your hands are unsteady at first, picking the antibiotic gel with hesitation. Again, you can't let that dominate you, so you breathe in and out behind your mask and force yourself to steady your grip.

You watch Tetarti dance around the liver with an unspoken rage, sweat dripping from your forehead and temples quicker than they can, syringe full of serum and focus at its full potential. Everything else has disappeared from your sight of vision, even Angie despite her standing right next to you. You have no attention to waste on anything else. Nothing, not even yourself.

By the time the least Tetarti cell dies out, your legs are about to give in because of how much you've forced yourself to stay strong all along. Still, if you can hear this man call you by your first name one more time, it'll be more than worth it. Your mentor deserves to see tomorrow and so many days after it.

You close the patient up and put away your tools, exiting the room only to collapse onto the nearest chair. Angie asks you if you're fine, but you've run out of air to speak with, so you just nod and sigh in relief. It's over. It's _finally_ over. This hell of a day is over, and it's ended with no casualty too. Thank Asclepius for that.

You'd have been devastated if you had failed, that's obvious.

Before you can entirely relax, you have a couple people to inform. You change back from your bloodied scrubs into your Caduceus uniform, trying to ignore the dark rings staring at you in the mirror of the changing room, and trying to stay afloat. Your body has troubles coping with the intense stress you were under merely minutes ago and the immense relief you're now experiencing. It hasn't gotten the time to adapt just yet, so you almost trip on yourself before pulling yourself together.

Cybil exhales a sigh of relief in an even rarer second moment of vulnerability while Sidney tries hiding tears under his glasses reflecting the light. It's like the loop has been complete and, from now on, everything will be fine, as tomorrow can't be worse than the days before it. Generally speaking, the atmosphere at Caduceus suddenly lightens.

You know you'll find yourself in Dr Kasal's room soon enough, because you'll never _not_ be worried for a father when the latter is still vulnerable to your eyes; but for now, you can enjoy the relief and the semblance of serenity. Not to mention, you may have a few hours of sleep to catch, considering your vision keeps swimming when you move your head too quickly. Angie seems fairly intent on having you get these. You don't find the strength in yourself to say no for longer than a couple sentences.

It seems like Cybil is fairly intent on being Dr Kasal's watchdog in the meantime anyway.


	5. From a Terrible Patient to the Other

Summary: _There are two traits everyone ought to know about Derek: he's terrible at lying, and he's terrible at being a patient._  
_There may be a third thing, depending on the context. Not that he'd tell you._

* * *

For what must be the twelfth time already, Angie realizes all over again how much of a terrible liar Derek is.

It's nothing new, sure; but he somehow always find a way to make it even more ludicrous the next time he does try fooling her like the naïve little girl she hasn't been for the past decade or so. Perhaps less ludicrous than trying to tell everyone it was his fault for getting infected with GUILT a couple months ago (although he may have genuinely believed that one lie), yet the fact nonetheless remains that he sometimes comes up with ridiculously outlandish claims.

So, what is it, this time, that she finds so ridiculous? Ah, perhaps the fact he's telling her he's doing absolutely fine, nothing wrong, he swears, when he's been clutching his abdomen for the past two days. Could be that…

Now that they're sitting in a coffeeshop directly facing each other like the bickering couple they aren't, she has the perfect opportunity to strike again. Not physically, obviously, because it seems like her colleague is in enough pain already; verbally, like she's always been good at (or so it seems). She's damn sure something's wrong and that this "something wrong" could be potentially lethal if left untreated. Doctors really make for the worst patients, don't they.

The fact they're face-to-face helps her notice even more of the little, wrong details she hasn't spotted before. He's pale, with crevasses for bags under the eyes, and yet his face is flushed and she can see (and somewhat smell, but she'd rather not focus on that, thank you) just how much he's sweating. He can deny having a fever as many times as he feels like doing so; it won't make it go away miraculously. Time to call him out on it for the nth time in the past fifty hours…

"Derek, are you sure you're fine?" She asks. "It seems like your stomach ache hasn't gotten any better since Wednesday."

"It… really hasn't, I'm suspecting something's wrong," he replies, glancing at his hand clutching the fabric of his sweater.

"I'm pretty sure a doctor of your fame has to know what it could mean, right?"

"C'mon, Angie, we both know I don't have time for that..."

Is he right? Yes. Does it still sound like a terrible excuse? Also yes. As always, she's going to have to press forward to get a reaction out of this grown-up man…

"Let me guess. You still haven't eaten, but you're still nauseous for a yes or a no? You're still certain this is bad food poisoning?"

"I've told you, Angie, I just don't have the time for this… You know as well as I do that Caduceus has a conference to hold soon, and…"

"Believe me, Caduceus doesn't need your appendix to burst into flames."

"I… I know, but…"

Angie's smug resting face melts when she sees Derek's expression suddenly turn into anguish. Not that he was exactly looking fine until now, but he's just gotten worse and the cold sweat running down her back tells her there's something very, very wrong happening right in front of her.

Without thinking twice, she rises up from her chair, causing everyone else in the small café to glance back at her, baristas and other clients alike. Grabbing her phone, she feels a hand do so with her arm, prompting her to stare at her colleague.

"I'm gonna call an ambulance and you _won't _stop me, Derek Stiles! It's about time you see a doctor for yourself!"

For a nurse calling a hospital about a patient, Angie doesn't sound like the most relaxed person. Actually, she's anxious enough for the receptionist to ask if _she_'s fine. Well, she currently isn't the one almost screaming in pain as he gets internally stabbed, so she better suck it up and show a proud façade. It isn't the first time and it certainly won't be the last.

The nearest hospital is a place she knows very well, so she's at least relieved on that front, but it doesn't make the situation any less-nerve wracking. What tells her it isn't too late? What tells her the ambulance will be on time and not stuck in some sudden traffic jam? Calm down, Angie, it's not about you, it's about him… You can't panic now!

As they wait for a saviour, she kneels down to Derek's level. He's somehow still sitting at the table, a fist clenched and the other almost clawing through his top. She only needs to graze his skin to know he is indeed running more than a "little fever, probably a cold, it's the season", if that wasn't obvious already. He's a worse patient than little kids running around hospital corridors, she says!

With wide gestures and loud words, she tells people in the café to make room for an ambulance. She should have asked before, she'll admit it, but her instincts knocked at the door before her manners did. The staff and other clients complied, with most of the latter either changing tables or leaving if their cups were empty. As to theirs, if hers is empty, Derek's is still mostly full, and she suspects he hasn't even had the luxury to pay attention to what he was getting served. Having your body turn against you does tend to produce attention deficiency.

"I… I don't get it…" Angie hears pained whispers near her shoulder.

"What don't you get?" She tries asking as calmly as possible. It's fairly ironic for her to have to force herself to do so when she's seen him in a much worse position in a much less familiar setting…

"It… It just got so much worse… so suddenly..." He gags, choking on either air or bile. She may have a bag on her, she always has so much useless stuff in her purse, like a scalpel "just in case"...

"You'll be fine, I promise…!" She doesn't sound bold enough to her tastes. "You'll be fine! Just hang in there, okay? Help's coming!"

Like back in Europe, she feels useless against the internal threat. All she can focus on are words that may or may not have a purpose…

Time goes slowly after the call comes to a halt. Her fingers are trembling and she wishes she wasn't so emotionally vulnerable, that she could be like Naomi and ignore her personal connections when her job requires her to do so; but then, is she really a nurse, in this situation? This was supposed to be her day off. Not quite the relaxing Friday she hope to have with a colleague she may be closer to than anyone else in the workplace (who is she kidding? She's closer to Derek than to her own mother, at this point). Life happens, sure, but does it always have to happen so badly?

There's no true rest for them until at least retirement, she supposes. Even if it wasn't her day off, Derek's body would have still turned against him. In a way, they're lucky she was there when his pain flared up, because the poor man doesn't seem like he can hold a phone for more than a millisecond at the moment. It'll be fine, it'll be fine… And, even if she doesn't believe it, then maybe repeating it to herself as a vaguely attempted uncertain fact will make it real. This is not a theory, this is the future.

When the screeching sirens finally arrive, Angie lets go of a slightly relieved breath, her hands still firmly planted on her friend's shoulders despite the shivers going through them.

They're casually, peacefully sipping on a late morning coffee when urgent footsteps rise from the corridor and slam the door of the lounge room wide open. Cybil puts her cup down as Amanda's s frantically panicked face appears before them.

It's going to be one of _these _days, isn't it?

"Dr Kasal! Dr Kasal! We've got an urgent patient in and the emergency service is already busy! We need you both in the OR immediately!"

"Calm down, Amanda", Cybil interjects. "Tell us what's wrong. Calmly."

The young nurse takes a deep breath, a deep breath out and steadies herself.

"We've just gotten a patient with a late-term appendicitis! He needs immediate surgery! I've already prepared his chart and-"

"Give it to me, Amanda," Greg responds, taking the notepad she's handing him. "I'm going to take care of it. Just get scrubbed up, okay? We're coming."

"Will do!"

They all leave the room after the remaining coffee in the cups is emptied in a couple gulps. Greg is used to surprise emergency cases like this one enough to be able to casually walk rapidly while scanning an entire patient profile in the meantime (without bumping into people like Derek would do trying to imitate that walk when he was still working at Hope. Ah, the memories). While he's at it, better start the pre-operation conference in the corridor (even if that's most likely going to cause Cybil to roll her eyes).

"The patient is a twenty-seven-year-old man with a slender constitution. Aside from his inflamed appendix, which seems to have festered for a couple days before he got wheeled in, he doesn't suffer from any known ailment. His last operation dates back to a few months ago for a GUILT infection. We shouldn't have any issue with it as long as we act fast and steady."

"Got it, chief."

They get scrubbed up and enter the OR without hesitation nor time lost. It's a routine procedure, so they have no reason to be hesitant anyway. They better get on with it quickly if they don't want the patient's condition to get worse anyway.

Greg is also used enough to his job that he doesn't focus on anything that doesn't it. That includes the patient's identity if it's an emergency. If this one clearly isn't going to be a walk-in-walk-out case, he's also nothing out of the ordinary, especially after the GUILT epidemic from a few months ago that almost ended his wife's and his lives. Still, there's a little scar on there that's intriguing him; but he has no time to be pondering about it. The patient's life is in his hands, after all.

"Scalpel, please."

The procedure really is as usual. The abdominal tissues are a little inflated, as expected of an appendicitis. He reaches the culprit.

"Syringe and anti-inflammatory."

The zone is as inflamed as expected for a case that has had a few days to develop. This man is really lucky to be operated on now and not any later. The consequences would have been much heavier to bear if that had been the case.

"Wire."

Choking the danger is essential.

"Scalpel."

Proceed with precision, speed and caution. One doesn't need the Healing Touch to do so. At least, not when the world isn't at stake.

"Done. Sutures, please."

And one more procedure well done, another life saved. He'll get to know the patient later, so…

No, no. The scar still lingers in his thoughts, even as he leaves the OR and scrubs behind. It seems like Cybil has got something on her mind too; so, at least, he's not alone with this issue.

"What's wrong?" He asks her.

"You haven't read the patient's name on his profile yet again, haven't you?"

"Well, you know we don't have much time when we get emergency cases like this." He still glances at the chart in his hands, only then realizing why she's pointing it out now. Well, at least, he's followed through with his own lessons…

"Like teacher, like student. He's as terrible of a patient as you are, it seems!"

He chuckles at her remark. "I think Angie told me so in a letter a few months ago already. I can't say I'm surprised." He gives the chart back to Amanda. "Tell me when Mr Stiles will have woken up.

"Will do, Doctor!" She replies as she runs off into the distance, clutching the notepad against her chest.

They get back into the lounge room. It's his turn to pay them a coffee.

"What's on your mind, then, Greg?" Cybil asks as she leans against the wall, cup in hand.

"Something doesn't make sense with Derek's chart."

She crosses her arms as she takes on a curious stance.

"What do you mean? You think Amanda's made a mistake?"

"I doubt this is her fault. It must have been written in his medical records beforehand."

"And what's this thing that doesn't make sense, then? I haven't seen the chart for myself for more than the measurements."

Ah, right. Cybil must have recognized Derek by his traits. Of course she doesn't depend on a chart like he does on that point.

"It's because of a scar."

"A scar?"

"You probably haven't seen it, but he had a horizontal scar on the middle of his abdomen."

"I don't think I've seen this kind of scar before. Well, not on men, at least. My mother has one from a hysterectomy from years ago, but…"

"It's a hysterectomy scar, there's no doubt about it."

"Wait, how?" Cybil asks with rising questionment painting on her face.

"The thing that bothers me is that Derek's profile doesn't indicate he's..." That's a thing he never tried to put into words before. "That he's born with something such an operation is meant to remove. Someone has tampered with his medical records."

He's rising that point because it's worrisome to say the least. Such tampering could have long-lasting, life-changing outcomes and he's not keen on having his mentee's condition get ravaged by a condition that, technically, couldn't be diagnosed without the information that has been blacked out. Was it Derek himself that modified it? He should've looked over it longer than he did back when they had to hospitalize him for a three-day coma… He could dig through the archives for it… Or maybe someone modified it in Europe. If the GUILT infection mentioned on the profile really is the one he got in the UK, then it could've been the surgeon who operated on him back there...

"If you're this concerned, you should just ask him directly once he'll have woken up and have the painkillers out of his system, don't you think?" Cybil's voice breaks him away from his thoughts.

"Ah, sorry for zoning out," he apologizes with a hand putting his tie back on correctly, checking his watch with the other. "We should get on with our day. Ready for your own rounds?"

"As always, Dr Kasal."

"Then let's go, Dr Kasal."

His rounds for the day end with, fairly obviously, his latest patient. Greg knocks on the door, feeling a little strange about reading such a familiar name on such a familiar plate. Despite the familiarity of the both of them, meshed together, they just don't feel close to home at all. Once he gets a response, he enters.

His mentee doesn't look like he's doing very well. This impression could be because he's never seen his former student in a hospital bed aside from the power-strain-induced coma from a year ago. He, also, most likely doesn't look as bad as his mentor himself did when he was stuck in a bed at Caduceus. At least, they're both alive. That, in itself and considering everything, is a miracle.

"Dr Kasal?!" Derek yells as he realizes who exactly is the person he just allowed to come in. "I-I mean, hello, Doctor…"

"Hello, Mr Stiles. I'm the one who operated on you. Or should I say Dr Stiles?"

"...Derek's fine, Doctor…" He scratches the back of his head with an embarrassed smile.

"Anyway, how are you?"

"Huh… Sore? You know, post-surgery stuff…" Very precise. Greg really is talking to a patient rather than a fellow surgeon. "I'm otherwise fine, I guess. It was an appendicitis, right?"

"Yes. I'm surprised Angie isn't with you."

"Oh, she was here until a few hours ago. She had to go back home because she's on the night shift tomorrow…" Like a patient, he also yawns after each sentence. "She wouldn't leave, so I told her to go home, she'd be all tired tomorrow if she stayed here all night…"

That does make sense.

"Are you fine enough for me to ask you a few questions, Derek?"

"Oh, sure, go for it…"

Greg takes Angie's seat next to the bed, the incriminated chart in his hands.

"Can you confirm to me what surgeries you've had before?"

"Hmm…" Derek sounds hesitant for such a basic question. Maybe his interview can wait until tomorrow… "Well, there was my GUILT surgery… All thanks to Naomi Kimishima…" So here is his culprit: the previous chart didn't have the disrupency. "Before that, I got, a… what's its name already… masectomy? I think?"

"Close enough. It's mastectomy."

"Yeah, that! And then a… Ah, shit, I forgot… Hyserectomy, I think?"

"Hysterectomy, yes."

Suddenly, Derek's shoulders rocket into the hair, as if he got woken up by mere words despite the medicine still lingering in his bloodstream.

"Wait, I have an explanation for this, I-" His face distorts in anguish and panic. "I swear, I'm a man, Dr Kasal! I'm not a fraud or anything, Naomi just changed things out for my privacy, and-"

"Calm down, Derek."

"My birth name wasn't on my chart, right? I changed it myself, so, huh… D-don't blame me, Naomi, please, Doctor! She did it for my sake, so scream at me if you need a culprit, but-"

"Derek, please calm-"

"I'm no monster, please, don't-"

"Derek, that's _enough_! Have I called Mrs Stiles by accident?!"

The sudden snap in his voice makes his mentee's verbal thrashing cease. His shoulders go down at last. His decomposing face tells Greg he may have gone a little too far…

"No, you haven't… Why?"

"Then, why are you panicking? I did call you Mr Stiles, as far as I know."

"Even knowing this? I mean, biologically, I'm-"

"The only reason I was worried about your medical record being tampered with was for your own sake. As long as you remember what risks you may come across, you'll be fine."

"You're not going to out Naomi or me for any of this, right?"

"Absolutely not."

Greg gives his mentee a smile to counter the bitterness he can see forming on the latter's face.

"I don't know who's told you you were a fraud, but you aren't. Just keep that in mind."

He then gets up from the chair, the weight he came into the room with lifted from his shoulders.

"Oh, huh, Dr Kasal?"

"Hmm?"

"Thanks for saving me. I owe you one now…"

"Then I hope, for my own sake, that you'll forever be indebted to me, Derek."

A smile finally shows up on the patient's mouth, accompanied by a little laugh.

"Can I repay you any other way, then?"

"By taking care of yourself. Cybil just pointed out to me my tendencies may have rubbed onto you. Don't be like me."

"Dr Myers did?" Sounds like someone doesn't remember having recently attended a wedding. "As in?"

"It seems like doctors make for the worst patients, Derek."

On these words, Greg left the room with a "goodbye, see you tomorrow".


End file.
